Part 1

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THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.

NUMBER 1. SATURDAY, JULY 4, 1840. VOLUME I.

THE CASTLE OF AUGHNANURE,

COUNTY OF GALWAY.

Not many years since there was an extensive district in the west of Ireland, which, except to those inhabiting it, was a sort of terra incognita, or unknown region, to the people of the British isles. It had no carriage roads, no inns or hotels, no towns; and the only notion popularly formed of it was that of an inhospitable desert--the refugium of malefactors and Irish savages, who set all law at defiance, and into which it would be an act of madness for any civilized man to venture. This district was popularly called the Kingdom of Connemara, a name applied to that great tract extending from the town of Galway to the Killery harbour, bounded on the east by the great lakes called Lough Corrib and Lough Mask, and on the west by the Atlantic Ocean, and comprising within it the baronies of Moycullen and Ballinahinch, and the half barony of Ross. It is not an unknown region now. It has two prosperous towns and several villages, good roads, and comfortable hotels. "The Queen's writ will run in it;" and the inhabitants are remarkable for their intelligence, quietness, honesty, hospitality, and many other good qualities; and in the summer months it is the favourite resort of the artist, antiquary, geologist, botanist, ornithologist, sportsman--in short, of pleasure tourists of all descriptions, and from every quarter of the British empire; for it is a district singularly rich in its attractions to all those who look for health and pleasure from a summer's ramble, combined with excitable occupation. Of its picturesque beauties much has already been written. They have been sketched by the practised hand of Inglis, and by the more graphic pencil of Cæsar Otway; but its history and more important antiquities have been as yet but little noticed, and, consequently, generally passed by without attracting the attention or exciting any interest in the mind of the traveller. We propose to ourselves to supply this defect to some extent, and have consequently chosen as the subject of our first illustration the ancient castle, of which we have presented our readers with a view, and which is the most picturesque, and, indeed, important remain of antiquity within the district which we have described.

Journeying along the great road from Galway to Oughterard, and at the distance of about two miles from the latter, the attention of the traveller will most probably be attracted by a beautiful little river, over which, on a natural bridge of limestone rock, the road passes; and looking to the right, towards the wide expanse of the waters of Lough Corrib, he will perceive the grey tower or keep of an extensive castle, once the chief seat or fortress of the O'Flaherties, the hereditary lords of West Connaught, or Connemara. This castle is called the Castle of Aughnanure, or, properly, _Achaidh-na-n-Jubhar_, Acha-na-n-ure, or the field of the yews--an appellation derived from the number of ancient trees of that description which grew around it, but of which only a single tree now survives. This vestige is, however, the most ancient and interesting ruin of the locality. Its antiquity must be great indeed--more than a thousand years; and, growing as it does out of a huge ledge of limestone rock, and throwing its withered and nearly leafless branches in fantastic forms across the little river which divides it from the castle, the picturesqueness of its situation is such as the painter must look at with feelings of admiration and delight. It has also its historical legend to give it additional interest; and unfortunately this legend, though quite in harmony with the lone and melancholy features of the scene, is but too characteristic of the unhappy social and political state of Ireland at the period to which it relates--the most unfortunate period, as it may be emphatically called, of Ireland's history--that of the civil wars in the middle of the seventeenth century. The principle, however, which we propose to ourselves in the conducting of our publication, will not permit us to give this legend a place in its pages; it may be learned on the spot; and we have only alluded to it here, in order to state that it is to the religious veneration kept alive by this tradition that the yew tree of Aughnanure owes its preservation from the fate which has overtaken all its original companions.

The Castle of Aughnanure, though greatly dilapidated by time, and probably still more so by the great hurricane of last year, is still in sufficient preservation to convey to those who may examine its ruins a vivid impression of the domestic habits and peculiar household economy of an old Irish chief of nearly the highest rank. His house, a strong and lofty tower, stands in an ample court-yard, surrounded by outworks perforated with shot-holes, and only accessible through its drawbridge gateway-tower. The river, which conveyed his boats to the adjacent lake, and supplied his table with the luxuries of trout and salmon, washes the rock on which its walls are raised, and forms a little harbour within them. Cellars, bake-houses, and houses for the accommodation of his numerous followers, are also to be seen; and an appendage not usually found in connection with such fortresses also appears, namely, a spacious banqueting-hall for the revels of peaceful times, the ample windows of which exhibit a style of architecture of no small elegance of design and execution.

We shall probably in some early number of our Journal give a genealogical account of the noble family to whom this castle belonged; but in the mean time it may be satisfactory to the reader to give him an idea of the class of persons by whom the chief was attended, and who occasionally required accommodation in his mansion. They are thus enumerated in an ancient manuscript preserved in the College Library:--O'Canavan, his physician; Mac Gillegannan, chief of the horse; O'Colgan, his standard-bearer; Mac Kinnon and O'Mulavill, his brehons, or judges; the O'Duvans, his attendants on ordinary visitings; Mac Gille-Kelly, his ollave in genealogy and poetry; Mac Beolain, his keeper of the black bell of St Patrick; O'Donnell, his master of revels; O'Kicherain and O'Conlachtna, the keepers of his bees; O'Murgaile, his chief steward, or collector of his revenues.

The date of the erection of this castle is not exactly known, though it was originally inscribed on a stone over its entrance gateway, which existed in the last century. From the style of its architecture, however, it may be assigned with sufficient certainty to the middle of the sixteenth century, with the exception, perhaps, of the banqueting-hall, which appears to be of a somewhat later age.

While the town of Galway was besieged in 1651 by the parliamentary forces under the command of Sir Charles Coote, the Castle of Aughnanure afforded protection to the Lord Deputy the Marquess of Clanricarde, until the successes of his adversaries forced him and many other nobles to seek safety in the more distant wilds of Connemara. This event is thus stated by the learned Roderick O'Flaherty in 1683:--

"Anno 1651.--Among the many strange and rare vicissitudes of our own present age, the Marquis of Clanricarde, Lord Deputy of Ireland, the Earl of Castlehaven, and Earl of Clancarty, driven out of the rest of Ireland, were entertained, as they landed on the west shore of this lake for a night's lodging, under the mean roof of Mortough Boy Branhagh, an honest farmer's house, the same year wherein the most potent monarch of Great Britain, our present sovereign, bowed his imperial triple crown under the boughs of an oak tree, where his life depended on the shade of the tree leaves."

There are several of the official letters of the Marquis preserved in his Memoirs, dated from Aughnanure, and written during the stormy period of which we have made mention.

The Castle of Aughnanure has passed from the family to whom it originally belonged; but the representative and the chief of his name, Henry Parker O'Flaherty, Esq. of Lemonfield, a descendant in the female line from the celebrated Grania Waille, still possesses a good estate in its vicinity. P.

THE IRISH IN ENGLAND.

NO. 1.--THE WASHERWOMAN.

BY MRS S. C. HALL.

The only regular washerwomen extant in England at this present moment, are natives of the Emerald Isle.

We have--I pray you observe the distinction, gentle reader--laundresses in abundance. But washerwomen!--all the _washerwomen_ are Irish.

The Irish Washerwoman promises to wash the muslin curtains as white as a hound's tooth, and as sweet as "new mown hay;" and she tells the truth. But when she promises to "get them up" as clear as a kitten's eyes, she tells a story. In nine cases out of ten, the Irish Washerwoman mars her own admirable washing by a carelessness in the "getting up." She makes her starch in a hurry, though it requires the most patient blending, the most incessant stirring, the most constant boiling, and the cleanest of all skillets; and she will not understand the superiority of powder over stone blue, but snatches the blue-bag (originally compounded from the "heel" or "toe" of a stocking) out of the half-broken tea-cup, where it lay companioning a lump of yellow soap since last wash--squeezes it into the starch (which, _perhaps_, she has been heedless enough to stir with a dirty spoon), and then there is no possibility of clear curtains, clear point, clear any thing.

"Biddy, these curtains were as white as snow before you starched them."

"Thrue for ye, ma'am dear."

"They are _blue_ now, Biddy."

"Not all out."

"No, Biddy, not all over--only _here_ and _there_."

"Ah, lave off, ma'am, honey, will ye?--'tisn't that I mane; but there's a hole worked in the blue-rag, bad luck to it, and more blue nor is wanting gets out; and the weary's in the starch, it got lumpy."

"It could not have got 'lumpy' if it had been well blended."

"It was blended like butther; but I just left off stirring one minute to look at the soldiers."

"Ah, Biddy, an English laundress would not 'run after the soldiers!'"

Such an observation is sure to offend Biddy's propriety, and she goes off in a "huff," muttering that if they didn't go "_look_ afther them, they'd _skulk_ afther them; it's the London Blacks does the mischief, and the mistress _ought_ to know that herself. English laundresses indeed! they haven't power in their elbow to wash white."

Biddy says all this, and more, for she is a stickler for the honour of her country, and wonders that I should prefer _any_ thing English to _every_ thing Irish. But the fact remains the same.

The actual labour necessary at the wash-tub is far better performed by the Irish than the English; but the order, neatness, and exactness required in "the getting up," is better accomplished by the English than the Irish. This is perfectly consistent with the national character of both countries.

Biddy Mahony is without exception the most useful person I know, and _she_ knows it also; and yet it never makes her presuming. It is not only as a washerwoman that her talent shines forth: she gets through as much hard work as two women, though, as she says herself, "the mistress always finds fault with her _finishing touches_." There she stands, a fine-looking woman still, though not young; her large mouth ever ready with its smile; her features expressive of shrewd good humour; and her keen grey eyes alive and about, not resting for a moment, and withal cunning, if not keen; the borders of her cap are twice as deep as they need be, and flap untidily about her face; she wears a coloured handkerchief inside a dark blue spotted cotton gown, which wraps loosely in front, where it is confined by the string of her apron; her hands and wrists have a half-boiled appearance, which it is painful to look at--not that she uses as much soda as an English laundress, but she does not spare her personal exertions, and rubs most unmercifully. One bitter frosty day last winter, I saw Biddy standing near the laundry window, stitching away with great industry.

"What are you doing, Biddy?" "Oh, never heed me, ma'am, honey."

"Why, Biddy, what a state your left wrist is in!--it is positively bleeding; you have rubbed all the skin off." "And ain't I going to put a skin on it?" she said, smiling through the tears which positive pain had drawn from her eyes, in spite of her efforts to conceal them, and showing me a double piece of wash leather which she was sewing together so as to cover the torn flesh. Now, was not _that_ heroism? But Biddy _is_ a heroine, without knowing it.

And in common with many others of her sex and country, her heroism is of that patient, self-denying character which "passeth show." She is uniformly patient--can bear an extraordinary quantity of abuse and unkindness, and knows quite well that to a certain degree she is in an enemy's country. Half the bad opinion of the "low Irish," as they are often insultingly termed, arises from old national prejudices; the other half is created by themselves, for many of them are provokingly uproarious, and altogether heedless of the manners and opinions of those among whom they live. This is not the case with Biddy; she has a great deal of what we are apt to call "cunning" in the poor, but which we genteelly denominate "tact" in the rich. While you imagine she is only pulling out the strings of her apron, she is all eye, ear, and understanding; she is watchful as a cat; and if she indulges in an _aside_ jest, which sometimes never finds words, on the peculiarities of her employers, there is nothing very atrocious in the fact. Poor Biddy's betters do the same, and term it "badinage." It is not always that we judge the poor and rich by the same law.

With young servants the Irish Washerwoman is always a favourite: she is cheerful, tosses a cup to read a fortune in perfection, and not unfrequently, I am sorry to say, has half of a dirty torn pack of cards in her pocket for the same purpose. She sings at her work, and through the wreath of curling steam that winds from the upraised skylight of the laundry, comes some old time-honoured melody, that in an instant brings the scenes and sounds of Ireland around us. She will rend our hearts with the "Cruskeen laun," or "Gramachree," and then strike into "Garryowen" or "St Patrick's Day," with the ready transition of interest and feeling that belongs only to her country.

Old English servants regard the Irish Washerwoman with suspicion; they think she does too much for the money, that she gives "Missus" a bad habit; and yet they are ready enough to put their own "clothes" into the month's wash, and expect Biddy to "pass them through the tub;" a favour she is too wise to refuse.

Happily for the _menage_ of our English houses, the temptation to thievery which must exist where, as in Dublin, servants are allowed what is termed "breakfast money," which means that they are not to eat of their employers' bread, but "find themselves," and which restriction, all who understand human nature know is the greatest possible inducement to picking and stealing; happily, I say, English servants have no temptation to steal the _necessaries_ of life; they are fed and treated as human beings; and consequently there is not a tithe of the extravagance, the waste, the pilfering, which is to be met with in Irish kitchens.

For all this I blame the system rather than the servant; and it is quite odd how Biddy accommodates herself to every modification of system in every house she goes to. The only thing she cannot bear is to hear her country abused; even a jest at its expense will send the blood mounting to her cheek; and some years ago (for Biddy and I are old acquaintances) I used to tease her most unmercifully on that head. There is nothing elevates the Irish peasant so highly in my esteem as his earnest love for his country when absent from it. Your well-bred Irishman, in nine cases out of ten, looks disconcerted when you allude to his country, and with either a _brogue_ or a _tone_, an oily, easy, musical swing of the voice, which is never lost, begs to inquire "how you knew he was Irish?" and has sometimes the audacity to remark, "that people cannot help their misfortunes."

But the peasant-born have none of this painful affectation. Hear Biddy when challenged as to her country: the questioner is a lady.

"Thrue for ye, madam, I am Irish, sure, and my people before me, God be praised for it! I'd be long sorry to disgrace my counthry, my lady. Fine men and women stays in it and comes out of it, the more's the pity--that last, I mane; it's well enough for the likes of me to lave it; I could do it no good. But, as to the gentry, the _sod_ keeps them, and _sure they might keep on the sod_! Ye needn't be afraid of me, my lady; I scorn to disgrace my counthry; I'm not afraid of my character, or work--it's all I have to be proud of in the wide world."

How much more respect does this beget in every right-thinking mind, than the mean attempt to conceal a fact of which we all, as well as poor Biddy, have a right to be proud! The greatest hero in the world was unfortunate, but he was not less a hero; the most highly favoured country in the world has been in the same predicament, but it is not less a great country.

Biddy's reply, however, to any one in an inferior grade of society, is very different.

"Is it Irish?--to be sure I am. Do ye think I'm going to deny my counthry, God bless it! Throth and it's myself that is, and proud of that same. Irish! what else would I be, I wonder?"

Poor Biddy! her life has been one long-drawn scene of incessant, almost heart-rending labour. From the time she was eight years old, she earned her own bread; and any, ignorant of the wild spirit-springing outbursts of glee, that might almost be termed "the Irish epidemic," would wonder how it was that Biddy retained her habitual cheerfulness, to say nothing of the hearty laughter she indulges in of an evening, and the Irish jig she treats the servants to at the kitchen Christmas merry-making.

Last Christmas, indeed, Biddy was not so gay as usual. Our pretty housemaid had for two or three years made it a regular request that Biddy should put _her own_ wedding ring in the kitchen pudding--I do not know why, for Jessie never had the luck to find it in her division. But so it was. A merry night is Christmas eve in our cheerful English homes--The cook puffed out with additional importance, weighing her ingredients according to rule, for "a one-pound or two-pound pudding;" surveying her larded turkey, and pronouncing upon the relative merits of the sirloin which is to be "roast for the parlour," and "the ribs" that are destined for the kitchen; although she has a great deal to do, like all English cooks she is in a most sweet temper, because there is a great deal to eat; and she exults over the "dozens" of mince pies, the soup, the savoury fish, the huge bundles of celery, and the rotund barrel of oysters, in a manner that must be seen to be understood. The housemaid is equally busy in _her_ department. The groom smuggles in the mistletoe, which the old butler slyly suspends from one of the bacon hooks in the ceiling, and then kisses the cook beneath. The green-grocer's boy gets well rated for not bringing "red berries on all the holly." The evening is wound up with potations, "pottle deep," of ale and hot elderberry wine, and a loud cheer echoes through the house when the clock strikes twelve. Poor must the family be, who have not a few pounds of meat, a few loaves of bread, and a few shillings, to distribute amongst some old pensioners on Christmas eve.

In our small household, Biddy has been a positive necessary for many Christmas days, and as many Christmas eves. She was never told to come--it was an understood thing. Biddy rang the gate bell every twenty-fourth of December, at six o'clock, and even the English cook returned her national salutation of "God save all here," with cordiality.

Jessie, as I have said, is her great ally; I am sure she has found her at least a score of husbands, _in the tea cups_, in as many months.

The morning of last Christmas eve, however, Biddy came not. Six o'clock, seven o'clock, eight o'clock, and the maids were not up.

"How did they know the hour?--Biddy never rang." The house was in a state of commotion. The cook declaring, bit by bit, "that she knew how it would _hend_!--it was _halways_ the way with them _Hirish_. Oh, dirty, ungrateful!--very pretty! Who _was_ to _eat_ the copper, or boil the _am_, or see after the _sallery_, or butter the tins, or _old_ the pudding cloth?"--while Jessie whimpered, "_or drop the ring in the kitchen pudding_!"

Instead of the clattering domestic bustle of old Christmas, every one looked sulky, and, as usual when a household is not astir in the early morning, every thing went wrong. I got out of temper myself, and, resolved if possible never to speak to a servant when angry, I put on my furs, and set forth to see what had become of my poor industrious countrywoman.

She lived at the corner of Gore Lane!--the St Giles's of our respectable parish of Kensington; and when I entered her little room--which, by the way, though never orderly, was always clean--Biddy, who had been sitting over the embers of the fire, instead of sending the beams of her countenance to greet me, turned away, and burst into tears.

This was unexpected, and the ire which had in some degree arisen at the disappointment that had disturbed the house, vanished altogether. I forgot to say that Biddy had been happily relieved from the blight of a drunken husband about six years ago, and laboured to support three little children without ever having entertained the remotest idea of sending them to the parish.

She had "her families," for whom she washed at their own houses, and at over hours "took in" work at her small cottage.

To assist in this, and also from motives of charity, she employed a young girl distinguished by the name of Louisa, whom she preserved from worse than death. This creature she found _starving_; and although she brought fever amongst her children, and her preserver lost much employment in consequence, Biddy "saw her through the sickness, and, by the goodness of Almighty God, would be nothing the worse or the poorer for having befriended a motherless child."

Those who bestow from the treasures of their abundance, deserve praise; but those who, like the poor Irish Washerwoman, bestow half of their daily bread, and suffer the needy to shelter beneath their roof, deserve blessings.

The cause of Biddy's absence, and the cause of Biddy's tears, I will endeavour to repeat in her own words:--